Out There, and: Haunting the All Night Stores

20 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW VERN RUTSALA OUTTHERE The night is full. All strangers wait there, crowding the dark, the jammed subway of everyone else. We feel them out there pressing, breathing steam on our windows, jiggling latches. The mob of the world, cold and hungry or just drunk, wanting to come in, impatient for the invitation we never send. The dead are there too carried on the cramped wave of the living, the whole world outside, an atmosphere of people moaning for entry, for safety, an air of faces and hands, a river and ocean, a Calcutta moaning for entry, for our lives which are all they need to survive the night. 21 RUTSALA HAUNTING THE ALL NIGHT STORES There are two or three at every store, members of the same sleepless family. At the pinball with his radio at full blast the kid whose pockets sag with change. The fat man, still young, who eats potato chips and candy, a quart of root beer always near. The woman with babies asleep in the car—motor knocking, dented fenders trembling— buying salami, bread, and a movie magazine. They move from place to place, sure always to be there when you come in looking for your own late obsession. ...